


Are You Not Entertained?

by lammermoorian



Series: wincest drabs [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Dean tries his best, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean remembers a conversation they had years ago, and he tries to give Sam an awesome surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You Not Entertained?

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this incredible fanart and incredible set of tags (http://bitchjerks.co.vu/post/136718617936/sketchydean-based-on-this-tweet) Very silly and not meant to be taken seriously.

No matter where Sam is in life - Bobby’s place, Stanford University, whatever podunk town John had decided to deposit them in a for a while - he knows that the library is a place of refuge and safety. Libraries are familiar and cozy, havens of knowledge and wonder. The Men of Letters’ library is no different.

He will never, ever forget the first time he laid eyes on the rows and rows of shelves, the thousands of rare books, firsthand editions of ancient texts, books of spells and curses… Sam could lose himself in this room forever. He always gets a little special thrill, going to the library. His library. What secrets have the Men of Letters hidden away for him to discover? What will he find today?

“Dean… what… the… hell?”

He did not expect to find this, though.

The library looks like it’s been taken over by some drunk college students preparing for their fraternity’s toga-themed house party. Someone’s bed sheets (his? Dean’s? Some dead guy’s?) are strung up across the walls, hiding the brick and the concrete, while reams of puke-colored ivy are unevenly wrapped around each column. On the table is more of each, and a cheap-looking gladiator costume - resting on top of which is a very real-looking, and sharp-looking, sword. Dean comes barreling out of nowhere, arms full of books. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be back yet!”

"Yeah, and you’re not supposed to be running with the incredibly rare and fragile books. What the hell, dude?”

He sets the books on the table - gently, Sam is pleased to note - and leans heavily against it, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You weren’t… it was gonna be a surprise.”

“It’s not my birthday, dude.”

Dean frowns. “You think I need an excuse to surprise my brother?”

Sam blinks. “No, but. I’m confused. Are we celebrating something? Are we having a party for the Ides of March?”

“The whats of March?”

“Nothing. So… what’s going on?”

Dean crosses his arms, shrugging his shoulders until they’re up around his ears. “You know… I just. I was thinking. You know.” He blushes, scuffing his foot along the floor. Oh my god. He’s embarrassed. More than that, he’s embarrassed about something sexual.

This is an opportunity. A experience. Sam has never known Dean to be embarrassed about anything when it comes to sex; no kink too kinky, no story too wild, no idea off the table. This Dean, this mumbling, stuttering, flushing Dean, is a rare sight indeed, practically months worth of blackmail privileges. Also, Sam thinks it’s fucking adorable.

“Do you remember,” sighs Dean, finally, after several silent seconds, “like, years ago, when we first started fucking around. I asked you if you had any, uh, fantasies?”

It’s Sam’s turn to frown. “No?” Maybe? If he reaches, he can conjure up a motel room, as faceless as the rest, and the warm line of his brother’s body resting against his own, but nothing specific, and certainly nothing they ever talked about. They talked about a lot of stuff, back then. “Not really.”

“No, you remember, man - ”

“I really don’t.”

“You had this one fantasy about, uh, that ancient library or whatever?”

Like divine revelation, it hits Sam all at once: one half-assed conversation out of a million shared. “The library of Alexandria?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Dean - ” The memories are all rushing back, warm-colored and rose-tinted, back when Sam still clung to his dreams of college and and of safe havens. Back when Dean did, too. “How the hell did you remember that? That was years ago, we were - we were practically kids.”

“I caught the tail end of Gladiator on TV the other day,” he chuckles, “and it just sort of popped into my head. I thought, I dunno, I thought it might be fun.” Dean smiles at him, eyes soft and half-lidded, and licks his lips. He is fully committed to this idea, no matter how dumb he might privately think it is, just on the off chance that Sam might enjoy it.

Sam can’t help it, he laughs. Dean crumples, blushes again, stuffs his hands into his pockets and turns away. God, Sam loves his brother. “Dude. I was kidding.”

His eyebrows jump to his hairline. “What.”

“Come on, man,” says Sam, in between gasps. “I was totally fucking with you.” One look at Dean’s dumbfounded face and Sam’s off again, only this time Dean joins him, slowly at first, then all at once, his big, bellyaching laugh that Sam loves so well. All the shit that’s followed them their whole lives, all the demons and angels, the pain and the punches - it was worth it, for Sam and Dean to get to laugh together, in their shared home.

Eventually, they catch their breath, and smile at one another. “Thanks,” Sam says.

“For what?”

“You know,” he gestures wildly, hoping one wave of his arm can encompass a lifetime of love. “For this. I appreciate it.” Even if the craftsmanship was shoddy, Dean really did put a lot of work into redecorating the library, and from the looks of it, he was not even halfway done. Sam kinda wishes he could see what the finished product is.

“Well.” Dean straightens his jacket, brushing off some imaginary dust. “That’s that, then. You start taking down this ivy shit and I’ll get the sheets.”

“Wait.” It’d be a damn shame to let all this hard work go to waste. “I mean. It’s just that.” Now Sam’s blushing, a hot thrill that travels from his face to his chest to his stomach and down, so down. “We could. Try it out anyway?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_The walls around him tremble, as though the gods of war themselves walk among the mortals, shaking the earth with their mighty steps. Sam rushes through the halls, the sacred scrolls clutched closely to his chest - no, they shall not be taken today! Not ever! The fire shall not claim these words and turn them to ash and memory!_

_There, ahead, sanctuary! He turns the corner, quick, dashes into a nook just as the footfalls of a foreign garrison trot beside him, neatly masking his panting breaths. Once he is sure they have gone, he rushes out into the hallway, his long strides carrying him ever closer to his goal, the wide, open door of an inner sanctum. Finally, happily, he darts inside of the room, shoving the door shut with his shoulder. He is safe. The scrolls are safe. He sinks to the floor, arms full of his precious treasure, and he could almost weep in relief, for the seven scrolls are… only six._

_"No,” he breathes in shock, and then, “no!” he cries in horror. “Please, gods, no!” But it is no use praying. He has only six scrolls in his hands; the seventh, the one of the highest importance, is gone. Lost to the fire, surely. Sam does weep, now, for alas, he has failed his mission to protect the knowledge with which he had been entrusted._

_Before long, his cries are interrupted by the sharp, quiet ring of a sword being drawn from its sheath. Eyes red and tired, he looks up to see a soldier, blade at his throat, once pristine red cape now soiled and sullied by soot and ash. “Name yourself,” says the soldier, with a voice as rough as newly-hewn stone, “and I may spare your life.”_

_“I beg you mercy, good sir,” says Sam, curled round the scrolls in his lap, “I am no enemy of yours, but a humble librarian. I seek only to protect the books that have been gathered here. In the name of knowledge, I implore you, leave me be!” But the soldier has already withdrawn, falling to one knee, and offers him a hand._

_“Forgive me,” he says, “I mistook you for a thief. I am a friend to this library, and thus I am also your ally. Please, allow me to assist you in whatever way I can.”_

_The soldier is a most handsome man, with a noble profile and a wide jaw, and lips so soft-looking that they could belong to a woman. His eyes, so green and bright, are the endless pool of Narcissus, so clear and beautiful that Sam wishes only he could stare into them forever. Already, the sounds of war and violence have become muffled, as though the two of them exist only in their own world, protected from suffering. “I would have your name, first, and then I do require your help.”_

_“I am called Dean.” He helps Sam to his feet, careful not to touch his precious cargo._

_“Only Dean?”_

_“Yes. I had a rank and my family’s name, but I have since cast it aside, for you see, I was to be your enemy,” says Dean of the beautiful eyes, now dull and haunted, “until I saw the atrocities that my commander - my father - had ordered. Now I am no captain, nor son, but merely myself. And you, knowledge seeker?”_

_“I am called Sam.”_

_“Only Sam,” he teases, and Sam smiles._

_“Yes. I have no home save for this place, and no family save for these books.” He remembers, suddenly, his fatal errors. “But alas, I have yet lost a dear sibling of mine! There are seven of these sacred scrolls, but the seventh has disappeared from my sight! Good Dean, I ask you, please help me find it!”_

_His eyes light up, the color of grass on a sunny day, and his teeth are white and bright as he pulls a scroll from his belt. “The gods have given their favor to our meeting, for it seems as though I have accomplished this task before ever having it assigned.”_

_Sam gasps. It cannot be - but it is! The seventh scroll! Oh, what luck! What joy! What -_

Dean, to his credit, is desperately trying to hold in his giggles, before they burst out of him all at once. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, doubled over, “I’m so fuckin - oh my god, Sammy, you are so into this! Haha! You really thought this out, didn’t you! Hahaha!”

Sam sighs, the old New Yorker magazines - because fuck him if they were going to use the actual rare books - held limply at his side. “Dude. Come on. I did Dr. Sexy for you, the least you could do is take this seriously.”

“I am, I am, I promise - oh, god. Phew. Haha. Okay, I’m done, promise.” He lets out one last chuckle, then coughs, straightens his cape. “Okay. Where were we?”

“You just gave me the last scroll.”

Dean grins, slowly, sweetly, with a hint of something hot and sticky in the curl of his lip. “Right. Now we get to the fun part. _I am pleased to have been of assistance, Sam._ ”

“ _Oh, sir,_ ” says Sam, because he knows it’ll move things along, “ _if there is anything at all I can do to repay such a gift, please, ask it of me! No task is too great!_ ”

_The soldier hums, deep and low, steps closer to him. “A task? Hmm. Well, I have one in mind, although I should hope that you see it as less of a task and more of a pleasure.” It strikes him, suddenly, the strength in Dean’s body, so firm and weighty and thick. Sam, by contrast, is a thin slip of a boy, pale from reading indoors all the days. One of Dean’s tan, calloused hands reaches out, cups his face, his thumb tracing over the swell of Sam’s lip. “What say you?”_

And Sam lets Dean ravish his mouth, in their itchy, discount togas, lets the magazines fall to the floor.


End file.
